Pulling Teeth
by temporalgambit
Summary: Bucky's immune system isn't exactly up to par on 21st century pathogens yet. He's compliant, but less than amused.
1. Chapter 1

In general, the serum had completely changed Steve's life—many aspects of it, anyway. Some, however, had remained much the same—like his personality, thank god. His moral core is still steadfast as ever, as is his willingness to put everyone else before himself. And perhaps most importantly, he will never be able to forget what it's like to be the little guy. He knows what it feels like when the cards are stacked against you, and the kind of courage it takes to stand up against those odds (though "courageous" isn't a word he would ever use to describe himself).

Of course, his agreement to dive headfirst into a dangerous military experiment had certainly paid off. Surviving in the ice until the 21st century had been one perk, you could say. Not to mention the added height, strength, and the ability to take a hit (or two, or three…hundred). His asthma is gone, too. His immune system in general has no time for illness anymore—something that can really only be appreciated when he remembers nights spent coughing and gasping for air, every second wondering if this was really how he was going to go. The panicked look on Bucky's face as he knew there was nothing he could do, but desperately wanted to help somehow anyway. Steve is eternally grateful he'll never have to see that again.

Although, speaking of Bucky and illness…

"I'b fide."

"You're not—can you even _hear_ yourself?"

"I have allergies."

Steve snorts. "Since when? To what?"

"Datasha's cat."

Again, an eye-roll. "Natasha was here for what, all of five minutes with that cat? _Yesterday_. And you never had problems with _any_ animals when we were growing up. Try again."

A long pause.

"Buck, c'mon, it's fine. Why don't you sit on the couch? You need to relax, it's _fine_ ," he reiterates—but Bucky catches him by the sleeve as he rises from the kitchen table—making no move to stand himself.

He looks embarrassed. "Steve. This is the third tibe this widter. Ad it's dot eved halfway over."

"I know, Buck, but—here, come on," he offers his hand, which Bucky reluctantly takes. His hand is hot and sweaty in Steve's, and the super-soldier has a sinking suspicion this is going to be something worse than a cold this time. He leads him towards the sofa. "You can't just—when you were only in and out of cryostasis for such short periods of time, your immune system never got the chance to adjust. So now that you're out for good, your body has to get used to the fact that every single germ on the planet is different now."

"I hate it," he complains, coughing harshly into the crook of his elbow. Steve winces. Clearly he's been pretend-staving-off this cold for longer than just a few hours, and he mentally kicks himself for not noticing sooner. Still, the fact that Bucky allows himself to be pushed down onto the couch cushions and tucked beneath the fleece blanket lying there for just that purpose is both a relief and a worry.

"You're running a fever," it's a statement rather than a question.

Bucky looks like he wants to protest, but a sudden shudder gives him away. "Probably."

"Anything else?"

Obviously knowing Steve's tenacity (which quickly outweighs the prospect of pulling teeth through a game of twenty questions) Bucky answers, "I'b…fuckig codgested," he makes a vague gesture towards his face. "Addoyig. Ad by head hurts. Ad by chest. Stupid cough. Throat hurts. Feel like I'b udderwater." As he rattles off symptoms, his body seems to become more and more aware of its unwell state. He scowls as other aches make themselves known. "Everythig else fuckig hurts too."

The flu. Steve knows it almost has to be. He's been up close and personal with it himself more times than he can count. Despite the barrage of vaccinations and booster shots to get him up to speed, it seems Bucky's overtaxed immune system has let yet another thing slip through the cracks. "Okay. That's…that sucks, and I'm sorry, Buck. You should've said something earlier." Again, Bucky looks like he's going to put up a fuss, so Steve cuts him off before he can begin, "You want tea? I'll make tea," he hurries towards the kitchen.

Bucky's hoarse laugh follows him. "You're havig a good goddab tibe, ared't you?"

"I'm—what?" Steve pokes his head back into the living room, confused.

"Beig the bother hed for odce. It's the opposite. Frob whed we were kids."

Oh. "I'm having a _weird_ time, if that's what you mean. Like backwards déjà-vu," he steps back into the kitchen to put the kettle on the stove. "I'd _prefer,_ " he calls loudly enough so Bucky can hear him, "if neither of us was the sick one for once. Having _you_ sick every time the wind blows the wrong way is bizarre. Doesn't feel right. Although…" he considers, "…you _are_ sorta cute with your face all flushed like that."

A snort, then a series of hacking coughs that _almost_ makes him regret voicing the thought, before, "Pudk."

He grins, knowing Bucky will hear it in his voice. "Jerk."


	2. Chapter 2

It turns out that, like just about everyone else on the planet, the flu is not a good look on Bucky Barnes.

The congestion moves from his sinuses, which seems like a small blessing until it decides to rear its ugly head in his chest instead. Coughing and hacking and gasping for air leaves him exhausted on top of the ever-present flu fatigue, and the couch becomes his semi-permanent home.

Steve doesn't mind.

Well, perhaps it's unfair to say that he doesn't _mind_ , exactly. Of course he minds that Bucky is miserable and sick. He doesn't relish seeing him this way. The role reversal is, as he'd said, _weird_. Not that he'd particularly like to go back to the days when it was him on the couch trying to expel his internal organs from his body, but that would be…familiar, at least?

Still, he certainly knows what to _do_ , given the situation. That part he doesn't mind at all—although the routine is backwards, much of it is still the same. Blankets, pillows, cool compresses, keep him comfortable, lots of rest. Soup. He can't get it to taste quite like what Bucky used to make, but he figures it's still probably better than what comes out of a can. And Bucky doesn't say anything, so he must be doing something right.

The present times have their perks, though. Modern medicine is nothing short of a miracle—being able to dose Bucky up on something relatively safe like NyQuil to help him get some rest is honestly a blessing. He snores, which Steve finds funny and a little cute, and sometimes coughs himself awake, which is less funny and less cute—but for the most part, he sleeps.

When he's not sleeping, he's doing his best not to complain.

Calling Bucky a "trooper" through this parade of illness would be a little condescending, Steve thinks, but it's not like it would be inaccurate either.

It's when this god-knows-what-kind-of flu decides to set up camp in his stomach that things kind of go to hell.

Bucky _hates_ throwing up. Hates it beyond a lot of things, and Steve very quickly finds out that aspect of his personality is still very much intact. So when he hears the unmistakable sound of retching around three in the morning, he's not entirely surprised to find the Winter Soldier looking very un-scary, forehead pressed against the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

"Hey, Buck," Steve greets softly.

"Hi, Steve." He doesn't lift his head, and doesn't seem at all surprised by the sudden company. "Sorry I woke you."

"No big deal. You need help?"

Bucky seems to really consider this for a moment. "Uh, yeah, in the drawer there," he makes a vague gesture towards the sink vanity, "I have those things, for uh, tying back my h— _oh, fuckin—_ " and Steve immediately knows what he'd wanted and why he'd wanted it as he watches Bucky frantically grasp as much hair as he can, pulling it away from his face as he unceremoniously heaves another splash of _something_ into the toilet. He repeats the process a second time for good measure, then blows out a long breath through pursed lips. He fumbles clumsily, metal hand still gripping his hair, to unravel enough toilet paper to wipe his chin, then finally drops it into the toilet and flushes. "Ah—scrunchie? S'that what they're called?"

"Yeah, here, Buck, I got it," Steve rummages in the drawer for a hair tie, is a little surprised when Bucky allows him to kneel behind him, pulling sweaty strands of hair away from his face and into as neat of a bun as he can manage. There's a little something sticky in his hair, but no way in hell is Steve going to point that out _now_. He can feel Bucky burning with fever as he rubs his back through the sweat-soaked t-shirt—part of him is relieved the soldier has regained his desire for familiar touch, while the other part aches under the circumstances. "How long have you…?"

Bucky shrugs. "I felt a little weird before bed. I dunno. It wasn't—I didn't think it was bad. It came on sorta fast."

Steve nods, a little grateful to the universe that he hadn't missed some crucial indicator earlier in the evening. "You wanna rinse your mouth? Stay here? Go back to bed?"

"Too many questions. Too fast." Bucky breathes in, out, drops his head back down to rest on his arms. "Uh, here—yeah, I wanna rinse my mouth. And stay here."

"Okay, stay sitting up." Steve marches over to the sink and fills Bucky's cup halfway with cool water. He grabs a washcloth from the shelf and runs it under the stream as well. Bucky looks at him like he's some sort of saint when he presses the cup into his hand and the cloth to his forehead.

"Christ, Steve, I—hang on," he rinses and spits into the toilet before turning to press his face fully into the cool cloth.

Steve lets out a little huff halfway between laughter and a sigh. "That bad?"

"Nah, s'good. When you keep the cloth there. S'cold. Nice."

"Your brain's being fried."

Bucky only hums in agreement.

"Okay, you hold that," Steve guides his right hand up to hold onto the washcloth, "and I'll go get your pillow and blanket. Anything else you want?"

Bucky shakes his head, too concentrated on pressing his face into the dampness.

Steve goes and retrieves the wanted items and is again, not surprised when he sees Bucky only partially conscious when he returns less than two minutes later.

It's no easy task to maneuver a grown man into a comfortable position on the cramped bathroom floor, let alone the two of them, but he manages—Bucky's pillow and head summarily ending up in his lap.

"Y'r not gonna—?" Bucky sounds confused as Steve tucks the blanket around his suddenly-shuddering shoulders. "You're staying? Y'don't hafta—"

"Relax, I want to," Steve reassures him. He's gone without sleep for far longer, he thinks, as he retrieves the washcloth from where Bucky has dropped it. The deep sigh of relief when he presses it back to his partner's forehead is by far all the thanks he needs.


End file.
